The Realest Thing
by 7thWonder
Summary: Sherlock's behaving irrationally and as usual John is clueless as to why. Well, he did violate the sanctity of the sofa, but surely that can't be it... M for language and future nakedness! Sherlock and Jonny boy are mine only in beautiful dreams.
1. Lumbar Support

"John?"

To anyone else in the world, the sound of their name being called by Sherlock Holmes would mean nothing. The questioning tone would go unnoticed. The annoyed breathy timbre to his voice would not be feared. To John Watson however, the sound meant trouble.

"Yes Sherlock," he said with a sigh, hoping that the detective would just stay put on the sofa long enough for him to make a decent cup of tea.

There was a slight pause and then, "John, have you ever warn women's underwear?"

John groped for the mug as it leapt from his fingers, but it was too late. Tea, china and milk scattered across the kitchen floor. Just another stain to add to the acid erosion, check pattern décor they had going on. He doesn't even have to bloody move! The doctor shook his head in disbelief and then hobbled over the puddle and broken fragments to the doorway.

"Have I ever done what now?" He asked, just wanting to be sure he hadn't misheard.

He received an alarming scowl; a look that reminded him just how much Sherlock did not like having to repeat himself.

"No Sherlock," John huffed, "I have never warn women's underwear. D'you mind telling me why you're asking?"

Sherlock's cool blue eyes turned grey in the light as they fixed themselves to the ceiling, "I was just wondering what these were doing here."

"What what were doing here?"

The detective's eyes rolled as he shoved his right arm beneath the sofa cushion and yanked out a pair of pink, French cut, lacy knickers. John swallowed hard as Sherlock offered them out to him at the tip of one long pale finger.

"I judge from your pupil dilation, salivation and the perfume coming off these things," Sherlock's nose wrinkled in disgust, "That these are your lady friend's."

"I, uh," John was momentarily speechless as pink lace flew towards his face with one quick flick. He dodged them on instinct before quickly snatching them up from his chair and ramming them into his pocket, "Yes, they are, urm, from the other night."

"One night stand with Sarah again."

It wasn't a question, but as always, John still felt compelled to answer, "None of your business."

"It is my business when her underwear impedes the comfortable application of my lumber support."

"Your what now?"

"My ability to lie down without having bunched up knickers prodding me in the back," Sherlock growled lowly.

John felt a sudden surge of defensiveness take over, "Wait! How did you even know they were Sarah's? We've been broken up for months now! Ever since that night…"

Sherlock cut in abruptly, "How many times do I have to go through this John?"

The tall elegant frame was whisked of the sofa and, in the blink of a sniper's eye, John's pocket was once again tenantless.

"Do you see here?" Sherlock began, tugging at the label stitched into the back, "These are La Senza, a pricey brand, highly impractical, suggesting a woman with a relatively good income who is able to treat themselves to such frivolities. Then of course there's the colour, Sarah's favourite is magenta. Despite being a redhead she liked to think she could pull it off from time to time and then of course, there's the odour which I've already spoken of."

He paused, stilling his frantic pacing in front of the window to examine them further, "If I had to guess, her date never picked her up from the practice and you attempted to comfort her…Thursday if I'm not mistaken."

"Thursday?"

"I was polishing off the case about the horse and then Lestrade roped me in on a murder so I stayed at the station over night, giving you plenty of opportunity. And I haven't had chance to lie down since," there was something odd about the way he was now looking at Sarah's underwear, hanging limply off his hand in the dimming light.

John, not being a great consulting detective or anything, couldn't quite place his finger on the right adjective. All he knew was that it wasn't the way a normal person looked at a pair of knickers, and it was making him uncomfortable. There was a slackness in the detectives face; his lids were heavy; his lips not set in their usual expressionless line, but instead, drooping down. Then he snapped back to life; pants were being hurled at John's head once more and the strange look was gone. Sherlock bounded up, across the coffee table and out of the door, "Get the sofa steam cleaned please!" he shouted over his shoulder. Five seconds later his door closed with a bang.

The disorientated doctor, having caught the knickers this time, stood for a short period in the middle of the living room trying to suss out exactly what had just happened. He understood that Sherlock's sofa probably hadn't been the most appropriate of places to have sex but did he have to be such a…such a woman about it? John let out a frustrated roar, and stared up at the ceiling, "I know you're watching up there. See what I have to put up with? He's bloody nuts!"

He started towards the kitchen, back to the shattered mess of his cuppa, before turning and adding, "I don't know what kind of shitty pranks you played on him when you two were kids. There only bloomin' knickers! For God's sake!"

Somewhere across London, in an underground facility, Mycroft Holmes felt confusion for all of a tenth of a second. John was wrong in his deductions once again. Sherlock's doctor still remained oblivious to the simple facts. Mycroft chuckled and took out his phone to send one simple two word message. A question both comical in its application to Sherlock, and in the context of its urban colloquialism coming from a Holmes. The message to Sherlock read quite simply;

**You jelly? -MH**

**A.N.- The title to this story is taken from the song Half of My Heart by John Mayer. Check it out! Oh and this is my first Sherlock Fic and first real FanFic too so I hopes you like it ^^ R&R**


	2. Bad Vibrations

There was about five minutes of complete silence from Sherlock's room and then came the sound of a phone vibrating against a wood surface. Possibly his bedside table, more likely the skirting board, next to the pile of phone books; not that Sherlock ever phoned anyone.

As John tipped the dustpan full of soggy china into the bin he held his breath. With any luck it would be Lestrade with a case; something violent, gory, horrible; something to brighten Sherlock's mood. The doctor caught himself.

I was not just hoping that someone's dead.

A low, hard growl echoed through the walls. It wasn't Lestrade. No case, no easing of the silent ruddy tension that John couldn't quite understand.

See John? Karma.

He flipped the lid of the dustbin back down and grabbed some kitchen roll and Cif. With any luck he might still be able to mop up the tea before it stained. Should they ever move out, John doubted the dear Mrs Hudson would be giving them back their deposit.

The ex-soldier slipped gently to onto his fragile knee and bent over to set to work on the vinyl. He covered the area with kitchen roll first to soak up the remaining liquid, before squirting some of the white bleaching crème onto another sheet and rubbing small smooth circles over the splatter pattern. He put his entire body into it, after all a little elbow grease never hurt anyone. Months of army training came flooding back. John had often wondered why they'd bothered to press cleaning techniques into the minds of soldiers bound for the desert, but of course, you never aired those kinds of thoughts. The smell of lemons flooded his nostrils and he was back in the canteen scrubbing the floors with Jack Spalling. Jack Spalling, the man with skin so fair they often joked about how the army was going to afford to keep him in factor 50. He had a smile that could outshine the sun that one.

John jumped as the IUD exploded before him taking the Hummer with it. A yelp escaped his mouth. Then suddenly he was back in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street covered in bleach and wrapped in a pair of long skinny arms, bare to the elbow where the sleeves of a fine silk shirt had been bunched up in a hurry.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm here John, I'm right here," The detective said sternly.

"I was really kind of wondering, why you were here?" John breathed in startled confusion.

Sherlock let out a sigh, "It's called being a good flat mate Watson."

John could feel his pulse racing; the adrenaline had only just started to kick in when he had been dragged out of the memory. The arms locked down further over his chest and a pair of leg appeared either side of him, folding themselves around John's legs.

"Sherlock?" John's eyes gapped as he was rocked backwards into Sherlock's lap.

"It's called deep pressure stimulation." Sherlock sounded annoyed, "You're a doctor John, surely you've heard of it."

The doctor tried to access his little mental medical knowledge library, but the door was locked. He was far too aware he was sat atop another man wrapped in warm embrace. But as the minutes ticked by his breathing slowed, and his pulse dropped. Yet they couldn't quite resettle themselves.

Sherlock made an unsatisfied 'humph' noise and loosened his grip just slightly, "Apparently I'm not quite the person to be doing this."

John's heart rhythm bounced; the doctor bent his arms at the elbows and encouraged the arms to squeeze firmer once more. He could picture the flicker of surprise in the ice blue eyes behind, but the taller man remained silent. John closed his eyes and found his centre, willing himself to drop those last few beats per minute.

Deep breaths John, deep breaths.

Another few minutes and, "That's your baseline."

Sherlock shoved the doctor off his lap and pulled himself up. John's eyes snapped open and he turned quickly, observing Sherlock hopefully. He needed more clues; he needed to know what on earth was going on. Instead, all he saw was Sherlock running a hand back through his dark curls and glancing down at his trousers.

"That was bleach you were pouring all over the floor," he huffed.

"Yes."

"Well, these trousers are ruined."

And then John watched as his roommate unbuckled his belt and slipped the leather out of its loops. He placed it between his teeth, freeing both hands to unbutton and unzip his fly. The black cotton dropped, revealing a pair of plain black boxer shorts that clung to his pale skin lightly. Sherlock kicked the trousers off his legs and into his hands, carefully avoiding touching the Cif soaked fabric to his favourite purple shirt. John, having seen many a man in far less (there's not time showering alone in Afghanistan) didn't blush or shy away, he just watched as his flatmate stooped over the bin and shoved the trousers down, before wandering back into the living room, as if he strolled around in his underwear everyday. Which he most certainly did not. Oh, something was definitely not right in the head of Sherlock Holmes. The calm logic of his mind did not become enraged by frilly knickers; did not hug other people, ever; and it did not, under any circumstance allow him to strip in front of others and act nonchalant. This would require further investigation.

John gave himself a quick once over, checking mainly to see how his jumper had faired. It wasn't his favourite, a black and white thing Harry had bought him for Christmas, so he wasn't particularly bothered by the splotches of grey already developing. His jeans were also turning paler at the knees. Never mind; he could always do with new "running around London chasing after criminals and Sherlock" clothes. John pulled of his socks, just in case, and rolled the denim up to his calves. He used the kitchen-come-lab table to drag himself up and hobbled after Sherlock…

…Who was lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, still wearing only his boxer briefs and shirt.

"Aren't you cold?"

"John, it's September, and Global Warming is in full affect. I am fine."

"I thought you wanted me to steam clean that?" Watson nodded at the sofa.

"I do, but for the moment the smell of lemons is so over powering the scent of…perfume," Sherlock forcibly stifled a snarl, "is masked quite well; even to my sensitive olfactory system."

John stood for a while, studying the detective. He couldn't tell for sure, but he had a feeling Sherlock was doing the same to him, out of the very corner of his eye. It almost made him feel…special? That Sherlock was still paying attention, even though he was pretending not to. It's not easy to examine what you can't see directly. John's skin began to tingle.

It's the bleach.

The sound of Sherlock's phone reverberated around the room, but the lean pale figure didn't move and inch. John coughed, clearing his throat and breaking the complete- wait, no, Sherlock said no silence is ever complete unless unnaturally made- semi-silence that they'd trapped themselves in.

"Do you want me to go grab your phone?"

"No," Sherlock said passively.

"Could be a case."

"It's Mycroft again, ignore him."

Another vibration sounded seconds later.

"It sounds urgent."

"It's not."

Again the phone vibrated.

"Could be dangerous," John winked.

A tiny smile tweaked the corner of Sherlock's mouth, before vanishing once more, "It's not."

"Well how about I just check anyway?"

John walked towards the door, only to find himself winded and pressed violently against the wall. There was another moment of stunned quiet. Both hearts continued thudding into each others chests, hammering away at each other. Then training kicked in once more and Sherlock was on the floor face down and John was straddling his hips, "Okay Sherlock, either start talking right now or I'm marching into your room and reading whatever it is on your phone you don't want me seeing."

There was another vibration and an accompanying growl from the man beneath him. The sound rolled up through John's body. It was strangely appealing. But other than that one sound, Sherlock said nothing. The doctor swung his leg back over and got to his feet. A held breath erupted from the heap of black locks. Sherlock stayed faced down.

"Are you going to tell me?"

Other than the rise and fall of his chest, the lanky lump on the floor didn't move.

"Fine then."

John stormed off to Sherlock's room. With or without the help of the world's only consulting detective, John Watson would get to the bottom of this.

**A.N.- Will John be able to find Sherlock's phone? Will he read his messages? Will Sherlock ever wear trousers again? (God I hope not XD) I'm quite enjoying this now, might do it every other day or something like that ^^ have a rough idea of where this is going ;) where the characters lead, I shall follow. **


	3. Saved by the Case

"Got ya'" came John's voice, filled with triumph.

Sherlock remained with his face consumed by the carpet pile. He didn't know exactly what messages his older brother had been sending him, but it didn't take a great amount of deduction to know that John was the last person Sherlock would want reading them. He had been waiting for Mycroft to twig. To see the uncontrollable change in his actions. They'd been increasing exponentially since that night; the night of the pool; the night John and Sarah had broken up. It had taken him long enough. Months. And now he was going to ruin Sherlock's efforts to keep himself in check with a few blasted texts!

So why was it, exactly, that Sherlock remained glued to the floor waiting for the 'pleasant' discussion to begin? (That's what it would be, John would never mock him or yell at him for this.) Was it because he knew trying to tackle John again was pointless (he had years of combat experience and was deceptively strong for a homunculus) or because subconsciously he wanted to be caught? The detective sneered into the carpet; psychology, what a pseudo-science.

Although a great deal of what I deduce does depend on predictable human behaviours.

There was a puff, a deflating breath. John was unhappy with his findings.

"Well that's odd."

Sherlock rolled onto his back and propped himself up with his elbows. John was starring at the phone with a furrowed brow. It wasn't anger, disgust, not even concern…he was…confused.

"What's odd?" Sherlock asked, hopefully, after his brief mood assessment.

"I coulda sworn this went off more than once," the doctor's mouth twisted into an annoyed pucker, "It appears your brother has a case for you."

Sherlock did his best to keep his blue eyes from widening ever so slightly, and his breath from huffing out in deep relief. Then he realised the vital flaw in his acting; it had been more than ten seconds and he hadn't rejected the job, "Tell him to do his own leg work."

The phone vibrated in John's palms and the doctor jumped slightly before touching his thumb to the Blackberry, "He says you owe him one for the virus. What virus?"

John's dark eyes stared expectantly down at the man on the floor. It only took a fraction of a second for Sherlock to put two and two together. That virus; the one that Mycroft occasionally used to delete borrowed government documents from Sherlock's laptop, or in this case, text messages from his phone.

"I have no idea."

Sherlock's Blackberry began vibrating violently and rhythmically, which could only mean one thing. John tapped the answer button and pressed it to his ear, "Hi Myke, sorry Mycroft. Yeah, oh, um, yeah sure thing," the doctor held the phone out, "He wants a word."

Sherlock clenched his jaw and took the phone, "What?"

"You owe me brother."

"I owe you nothing! I wouldn't have had a problem if you hadn't put them there in the first place!"

"I can forward them to him if you like," there was a smile in Mycroft's silky voice, "I have them all here. All my finger has to do is slip and…"

"FINE!" Sherlock roared, "I never thought you'd stoop this low."

"Yes well, information is power little brother. If you didn't have so many secrets I wouldn't have so much to work with," he paused, and Sherlock knew it was to revel in the sound of his own flustered breathing, "You could tell him now, you know. Then I wouldn't have any leverage."

Sherlock looked at John with a paralysing stare. Internally he berated himself for that look; John would read something in it, he would see, but he couldn't help himself.

"That's not going to happen," Sherlock snarled through barred teeth.

"Shame. That would've been interesting to watch," Mycroft let out a single disapointed 'tut,' "The documents are already open on you laptop screen. Keep me posted."

The line disconnected. Sherlock fought the urge to lob the handset at the wall. He thrust a deep breath through his nasal passageways and stormed passed John into his room. For a brief moment the detective saw the question of whether to follow on the veteran's befuddled face, but it was blinked quickly away. Sherlock had set his blue eyes on ice; John had intelligence enough to know a dark storm was coming. That point was emphasised by the careful, controlled closing of his bedroom door. When Sherlock was being melodramatic, he liked to be loud. When he was in genuine turmoil, his thoughts did the shouting for him.

He perched carefully on the edge of his bed and reached beneath the frame for his laptop. It was closed, but the screen was already aglow. He pulled it open and placed it haphazardly on the bald patch of duvet next to him. The rest of his bed, along with the majority of his room, was coated in a layer of matted papers, joined by the odd pen, book, tape recorder and actual genuine cassettes; he'd never liked CD's. Sherlock flicked through the files on screen absentmindedly, taking the information presented in, but not really processing it. For the moment the large majority of his neural capacity was obsessing on something else. Something in the next room in fact.

This is getting infuriating.

You're not supposed to feel this way.

Never you.

Not Sherlock Holmes.

Once, a long time ago, when Sherlock had first been taunted by his peers and dubbed a sociopath, Sherlock had read up on the subject. He read that sociopaths often become overly attached to one person or group of people; that they were capable of empathy under these circumstances; that they could feel. But he had come to the conclusion that his classmates were idiots, morons and imbeciles once he read that sociopaths were most likely to be uneducated and nervous around others.

Considering he outdid them all in every exam, including physical education (which he went to under protest) and was, quite frankly, one of the most brilliant men on the planet, he could hardly be considered uneducated. And whilst he disliked being touched by strangers, he could hardly be called nervous; after all what kind of social phobic ran round chasing criminals late on a Saturday night? No. He wasn't a sociopath. He merely used it as and excuse to ward of others. The fact that sociopaths could become attached was irrelevant to him.

But John wasn't.

Sherlock slammed the lid of the laptop down and chucked it on the pile of papers taking up the right side of his double. He swung his legs up, onto the bed and lay back. This was comfortable. This was him and his wife, his work, sharing a bed. This was how it was meant to be.

So why did he feel so uncomfortably cold?

Oh, yes. He still wasn't wearing any trousers.

**A.N. Tut tut Sherlock, still not wearing any trousers. What will we do with you? XD I'd just like to give a quick thanks to all of you who have watched this so far and left me reviews ^^ It means a lot :3 You have no idea how surprised I was to open up my e-mail this morning O_O But anyways... Will John ever find out what's up with Sherlock? Will Sherlock be able to pull it together and solve the case? Will Mycroft ever stop playing Big Brother? (I mean what is this, 1984? X3) Find out next time ^^ R&R always appreciated!**


	4. Pinch Me

It was an unwritten rule that Sherlock Holmes never slept when on a case. The only exceptions to this rule occurred when a case went on for longer than four days, after which John would always attempt to slip him something in a cup of tea or coffee. Sherlock always knew when John was trying to act unsuspicious; he had a habit of placing both hands behind his back and gazing everywhere but at Sherlock. It was something Holmes had first noticed the night John saved his life and then again, every time Sherlock came home to a clean flat, or a flat that smelt of perfume, or when John was trying to dope him. Of course the good Dr Watson never knew that his attempts to slip him sedatives discreetly were unsuccessful, because Sherlock always drank the tea or coffee and allowed himself to drift gently off to sleep.

But Mycroft had only just given him a case. And John had been nowhere insight for the rest of the evening after their tumble on the floor. So as Sherlock felt himself being ripped out of stage three sleep he knew something must be deeply wrong because a) he was sleeping and b) someone was elbowing him hard in the ribcage and yelling his name.

"SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock's eyes gapped open in the darkness and his body stiffened. The voice quietened for a second. Just long enough for the sleepy detective to assess the situation.

First observation; I am currently clinging to another human being.

Second observation; this bed it far to firm to be mine.

Third observation; the person I am clinging to smells and sounds and feels…like John.

Conclusion; I seem to be suffering from somnambulism.

"John?"

"Yes Sherlock."

"Just checking," Sherlock said drowsily; this comatose state was acutely irritating.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes John?"

"Why are you in my bed?"

"I believe I must have sleep walked."

"You sleep walked?"

"Yes John."

"Into my bed?"

Sherlock gave a small sigh, which came out as a warm puff of air against John's ear. There was no denying the shiver that ran down the veteran's spine. Sherlock felt an unfamiliar warmth flow to a particular extremity and hoped to Galileo that John couldn't feel it too. There was an all too silent pause and then, "Are you still wearing only your boxers?"

"And a shirt John, don't forget the shirt."

"Because that makes this less weird," Sherlock felt the miniscule shake of John's head against the pillow, "Are you ever getting out?"

Sherlock blinked, "Of course."

He unlooped his long pale limbs from John's sturdy frame and slid out of the bed with as much grace as he could muster, "Sorry John, I'll try not to let it happen again."

The detective made for his flatmates door but his ears stalled him. Sherlock listened to the movement on the bed; John was rolling over to face him and the rest of the room. There wasn't much light coming through the blackout curtains (John was used to sleeping in the complete darkness of the desert, not the amber light of London) but there was enough to make out the angle of John's face. It was, in fact, focussed directly on him. There was a soft streak of amber in the lower third of John's face, as if his mouth were slightly ajar, open with a question.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, in a voice just above a whisper.

"Can you lean down a moment?"

One invisible dark eyebrow raised in curiosity. Whether it was the sleepy haze that still hung over him or the lack of light, Sherlock couldn't quite figure out what John was planning. He crouched next to the bed allowing his arms to flop limply around his knees. John leaned up on his elbow, bringing his head more level with Sherlock. He was still only a dark shape with an orange aura down one side of his body. For a moment Sherlock wondered if John's eyes could see more; if John could make out the features of his face in such minimal light. After all, the man had had specialist training. Although soldiers usually used goggles in this sort of lighting didn't they?

Then his thoughts were cut off; abruptly, blissfully, almost like flicking a switch. John's lips were pressed against his. That was the only factor that remained. No sight; any light was consumed by John's sudden proximity. There, in the darkness, was only the gentle pressure laid against his mouth. And the sound; what was that sound? A panicked breath? Where was it coming from? Him or John? John. Definitely John.

The lips slipped away, but not out of reach. John's ragged breath was still whispering out of his lungs. Sherlock wished that he could see those warm brown eyes. Then he would know why John was panicking, why his breath was so uneasy.

"Sherlock?" there was a cracked sound in that murmur of his name.

It made the detective's heart lurch, however impossible that may be. It was like the organ was propelling him forward. Sherlock rocked onto his knees and reached for John's face. His hands brushed against the rough skin, the sand paper stubble (it was early morning then) and the soft mess of hair. There was a question in his mouth, on his tongue, but he didn't dare ask it. Instead, he simply did what John had done. He reached in the darkness and brushed his lips against John's, softly, and then firmly. John smiled. Sherlock couldn't see it, but he could feel it, with his hands, and with his mouth. The sensation created an involuntary contraction in his hip muscles and his spine arched over the mattress pushing John back.

And that was when Sherlock landed with a triumphant thud on his bedroom floor. He had dragged the duvet with him, which meant his dive from the bed was swiftly accompanied by the clatter of his laptop and a shower of unsettled papers. Confusion didn't take long to disperse. Annoyance was a lot more difficult. Oh, how he loathed vivid dreams; especially when they were made of such utter nonsense.

I am married to my work.

I am married to my work.

And now I have to rearrange my whole damn filing system.

He let out a dull groan.

It was definitely daytime; that much Sherlock could deduce from the bright light clawing at him from beneath the bedroom door. He rolled onto his belly, noticed that his purple shirt had been thrown off at some point during the night, and then squirmed over to the skirting board. His phone was tucked down the back of a copy of the yellow pages. He pressed one pale digit and the phone fluoresced painfully.

It was 1pm. Sherlock's head thudded against his paper carpet and otherwise bare floorboards; if John hadn't already been worried and on watch, he would be now. Of course there was always the possibility that Sherlock was just missing a large piece of data from last night and John would know exactly why he had slept so late. The detective growled into the floor.

"I am married to my work."

"What did you say Sherlock dear?" came the crooning voice of Mrs Hudson below.

**A.N.- Poor bloke, I should really put some clothes on him soon XD And I know what you're thinking ~feels the wave of rage~ I feel it to...but it wrote itself, I had nothing to do with it honest! Just got to say though that I am once again bedazzled by the amount of support for this fic ^^ it seriously makes my day to open up my inbox and find a whole heap of alerts, faves and reviews. I love replying to them :3 Oh and Princess Autumnal thanks for your support! I love them a bit too much too ;3 (I don't know why but your PM's are turned off so I can't respond 3:) Have been going through correcting a few typos I keep finding as well XD so all go on this :) really enjoying it ^^ Back to business- Will John interigate Sherlock on his new sleeping habits? Will Sherlock ever get round to the case? Will Mrs Hudson ever turn down her blasted hearing aid? (What? And miss all the goss? You must be joking ;))**


	5. The Nature of Experiments

John woke with a jolt at about 7am. His mouth was dry and tasted strange. His lips were raw and he was oddly aware of being by himself. Why was that again? John closed his eyes and tried to remember; tried to remember why he should be anything other than alone. The dream; that dream. That bloody weird dream. He pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead and shrank back into the duvet. Where on God's green earth had that come from?

When did my subconscious start thinking I was gay?

Something knotted in John's stomach. With a sharp intake of cold air he threw off the blanket began to shift across the bed. How had he managed to sleep on his bad shoulder? Then he spotted the indentation in the sheets; the long, painfully thin dip in the mattress. John swallowed hard on a dry mouth.

"What the hell happened last night?" he questioned the empty room.

Did I really do that?

His eyes stared at the shallow mould of Sherlock Holmes. John had thought it was a dream. Even in the dream, he had thought it was a dream. It had to be a dream.

Didn't it?

After all, very few people Sherlock's age actually sleep walk. It wasn't normal. John scrunched is eyes tight.

I should have known.

Nothing about Sherlock is normal.

So many questions began to flood into John's mind, far too many to deal with lying down and tealess. Yes. Tea was most definitely needed in this situation. It was what it was invented for. Maybe not. John doubted the first cuppa was used calm someone down whilst they debated their sexuality.

Shit.

Tea first.

John pulled himself out of the bed, straddling the empty impression as if attempting not to disturb Sherlock himself. He was still wearing pyjama shorts and a thin blue round neck, which was a good sign. But then they didn't…

Tea. First. John.

The doctor rolled his injured shoulder but surprisingly it ached no more than normal. He took a step forward and his leg obeyed. At least his body was behaving itself. He opened the door and listened hesitantly for a few seconds. There was none of the usual sounds of the scientist tinkering away. Odd, especially for this time in the morning. Sherlock was usually awake around four or five, that's if he hadn't been awake all night. Perhaps he'd gone out. Or he was dead. Either way the kitchen was free.

John raced silently down the stair case and across the landing, through the living room and into the kitchen. A man on a mission. A man in need of tea. He flicked the switch on the kettle and stood letting the hiss drown out his thoughts with white noise. It flicked up with a gentle ping and the sound of bubbling water. John grabbed a mug and a tea bag. He concentrated on every sensation involved in the making of his piping hot beverage; the smell, the heat, the gentle contraction and relaxation of each muscle. He pondered his knew found enthusiasm for tea and slumped into one of the rickety chairs that matched the even more rickety looking table. How it bore the weight of Sherlock's equipment John had no idea.

Ah, there we go.

Back to the issue.

John took a sip of tea and eased a deep breath.

Assuming, just assuming that wasn't a dream I had last night, what exactly am I going to do?

He could say it had been an experiment. Because that's what it had been, not that John would have preceded had he known he was awake. And Sherlock would understand. He would understand the hormonal chemistry better than John did even. John was sure.

A vivid memory sent electricity leaping through John's chest causing his heart and stomach to contract in unison; Sherlock had kissed back. If John kissing Sherlock hadn't been a dream, then Sherlock kissing John wasn't one either. None of it was. Not even Sherlock crawling back into the bed or John burying his head in Sherlock's chest. Had John really enjoyed a sleepy make-out session with his flat mate? And did Sherlock really respond, like that? By rocking himself over John, by wracking his fingers back through his hair, scrapping deliciously at his scalp. Had he really pressed a single kiss to each eye lid before John had slipped into a black void of sleep once again?

Surely not Sherlock. Not the stern, emotionless Holmes. Not the man who only ever seemed to get excited whilst lurching through the night after some demon terrorising London. Surely he couldn't have been a part of that dream last night. The impression must just be a coincidence. Perhaps where John had laid before rolling over. The rolling, that could distort the impression.

The knot in John's stomach tightened sharply and John finally conceded.

Dream or not; you apparently have feelings for Sherlock Holmes.

John took a great mouthful of tea. Somehow it was suddenly cold. The doctor glanced at the kitchen clock.

When did I lose two hours?

He glanced at his cup of tea and shrugged, "Waste not, want not."

He slugged back the room temperature liquid and put the cup in the sink, next to what he hoped was the deflated finger of a glove and not the skin off some poor buggers digit. John turned his back on whatever the hell it was before he could ask himself why it was peach toned. He found himself starring at the floor, at the pattern of bleach and tea he had made yesterday. His arms folded across his chest as the ghost of another set of limbs encircled him.

I didn't dream that.

And I didn't dream his odd behaviour.

His reaction to Sarah's underwear. What if? No. He couldn't be. That was just wishful thinking. John pushed off from the side and walked over the now dry floor. He had just made it to the carpet when he glanced back at the flooring once more.

"Is he jealous?"

John clamped a hand over his mouth. He hadn't meant to say it out loud. You never knew who was listening in this flat. And just to prove that point John heard the sound of his phone vibrating through the ceiling above. The soldier jogged back up the stairs and into his room, but the phone was nowhere to be seen.

"Where are you, you bugger?"

It began to vibrate continuously in response, "Cheers Mycroft."

John dropped to his knees and slid his torso under the bed frame. God knows how it had managed to wriggle its way under there, but he could see the Nokia's glowing screen. His fingers grazed its surface and he slipped further under. As his hand grabbed hold of his phone, the elbow of his other arm brushed against something smooth and soft. John jumped at the feeling and smacked his head against the underside of his bed. He sighed and hooked one finger into what ever item of clothing he had accidentally thrown under the bed. His hips shimmied him backwards slowly, until his head was finally free. Light fell on the objects in his hands. In his right was his phone, no longer vibrating, but displaying a very clear and typically concise Mycroft response.

**Yes-MH**

However it was the item in John's left hand that caused his mouth to gape because he really couldn't remember ever owning a pure silk, dark purple shirt that smelt quite so wonderfully of chemicals, coffee and just a touch of lemon. And if it was here then…

**A.N.- See what I did there XD Totally knew I was going to do that ^^ Why else would Sherlock be shirtless AND trouserless? ;) So I reached a life goal today and decided to reward myself by writing another chapter of this :3 So for one day only (GMT time) 2 for the price of 1! Twas only fair as I missed a day, and I did a cruel dream chapter _ tututut. And now this! Double bluff mwfafafafa. Or is it a triple? I lost count :3 Again thanks for the great response you guys are sending my way ^^ keep it coming! Onwards!- Will Sherlock realise it wasn't a dream? Will John admit his feelings aloud? And SERIOUSLY, will Mycroft's case EVER get solved? (At this rate only Galileo knows!)**


	6. Incorrect Conclusions

For the longest time, what seemed like millennia, John sat in complete silence on the edge of his bed. It was all he could do, just to keep a steady inward-outward breath. His heart rate was out of control and his mind was running with it.

What the hell does this mean?

What the hell do I do?

Where the hell is Sherlock Ruddy Holmes?

John hadn't heard the slightest sound out of the man who had apparently shared his bed last night. He had to have gone out, but recently Sherlock had taken to leaving a post-it on the mug cupboard if he was going to be out when John woke up. Something had to be wrong. If Sherlock had gone out in the night, after John's dream experiment then…something had to be wrong.

John's thumbs ran soft circles over the plum fabric. It was a comforting motion, self-soothing. Very, very slowly it was working. The veteran put a wall up in his mind, blocking off the panic from his other emotions and thoughts. It was one of those handy-traits the army had whipped into him. He could still feel the pressure built up inside his mind, but he good think a little more clearly, reason with himself.

What if Sherlock hasn't gone out?

Shouldn't you check?

He nodded very slowly to himself and stood bolt upright, fisting his left hand into the silk shirt subconsciously. He picked up his phone as well; John had a feeling the moment he came back into view of the cameras Mycroft would be sending another message (Mycroft had once assured John that there was only a microphone in John's bedroom…John hadn't found it all that reassuring.)

This time John found himself tip-toeing down the stairs and very carefully towards Sherlock's door. The majority of the doctor did not expect to hear a single sound coming from the room and was beginning to hope the detective had been kidnapped or stolen away by Lestrade. Surprise shivered happily through him when he heard the deep and heavy breathing thundering through the wood. John's eyes widened, but he couldn't keep the smile from his face. Sherlock was sleeping! Sleeping! Okay, it was a little odd for him of all people to be having a lie in, but he hadn't freaked and done a runner!

Why would he have done that again?

Because I kissed him last night.

And then he kissed me.

Repeatedly.

John's leg suddenly buckled and he very nearly missed the banister and plummeted down the stairs. He took a minute to compose himself, then launched himself at the living room door frame, then used the various objects to walk himself to the sofa.

Damn leg.

The doctor leant his head forward into his hands, knowing full well his leg only acted up if it was cold or if something was troubling him. And there was definitely something troubling him. It's not every morning you wake up and realise you are probably, maybe, sorta, just a little bit in…like with your flat mate. Nor is it every morning that the possibility arises of him returning those feelings.

When did I even start feeling whatever…this is?

John's phone vibrated quietly in his palm. He pushed up open the keypad and read Mycroft's new message;

**So, Dr Watson, what are your intentions towards my little brother?-MH**

John couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips. He frowned and his thumbs dashed across the tiny keys;

**That's a very good question-JW**

There was a silent tension about the flat and it was slowly beginning to sink into John's muscles. He rolled his shoulders with a click then rested his chin on his hands. He was staring at the fireplace opposite, thinking of their first day together.

I was in awe of him even then.

John barely even flinched when the next text came. He shifted the weight of his head onto one hand and pulled the phone from his side.

**Why don't you go and take a shower? I here from a reliable source they help you think.-MH**

That was a great idea. It was about time John got up. The clock on his phone was now showing 10:30 am. Sherlock would surely be awake soon. John needed to have his thoughts in order by then. The doctor checked his knee for any tenderness carefully, before slowly rocking onto his feet. It seemed to be behaving again. The muscles in his leg flexed perfectly as John dipped into a slow squat. A question flickered into John's mind. He typed it quickly into his phone and pressed send;

**Who's this source?-JW **

He was hoping for anything other than; "There's a camera in the bathroom." John picked up Sherlock's shirt once more and started slowly across the room. Mycroft's response came quickly this time;

**Why Sherlock of course.-MH**

A warm smile slipped to John's lips. Most people found it odd, how much Sherlock could deduce about a person, but John found it soothing. There were no misunderstandings with Sherlock, no accusations of withheld information or white lies. The man saw everything with those dazzling blue eyes of his. And if there was anything Sherlock didn't know, he never hesitated to ask if he wanted to. Or at least that's what John had thought.

If Sherlock had feelings for John, then surely he would want to know if those feelings were reciprocated; surely he would have asked. Unless of course the world's greatest (and only) consulting detective believed himself to already know the answer. But then why all the jealousy if Sherlock knew John's feelings?

The Harry incident.

That would make sense.

Sherlock very rarely made a mistake in his drawing his conclusions, but sometimes there were pieces of information he couldn't possibly have access to, or sometimes he sped so fast through a deduction he forgot to factor in certain possibilities. Harry was Harriet; his lesbian sister recently separated from his ex-sister-in-law Clara. Sherlock had assumed she was male. What if Sherlock had made an assumption in John's case to?

John's not gay would seem to be the obvious one.

John slid his head under the hot streaming water of the shower. The steam was already hypnotic; time to stop skirting round the issue.

What am I going to do when Sherlock wakes up?

Discussing it like adults seemed like the bet option, but Sherlock's track record with adult conversations wasn't exactly the best. John couldn't even reason with him over the head in the fridge without being brushed aside with a, "Just tea for me thanks." It was something John could laugh off most of the time. When it came to anything vaguely romantic however, he wasn't quite sure he'd be able to contain the spark of anger that usually ignited.

"Maybe my best option would be to just…show him."

If John's cheeks hadn't already been red with the heat of the shower, they were when he realised he'd said those words out loud.

Oh please don't have a mike in here.

He scrunched his eyes tight. The phone propped on the side of the hand basin stayed silent. The doctor heaved a sigh of relief. It didn't matter how liberal Mycroft appeared to be, that was not a thought John wanted him to hear; especially when John didn't exactly know what he meant by them himself.

The soldier left the shower running and lay down in the tub, letting the water fall on his bare knees as his chest grew cold with the sudden lack of pouring heat. His mine drifted back in time and the knot in his stomach suddenly made sense. Every time he'd felt it, he was stood next to Sherlock, or somewhere close by. He'd felt it first at the crime scene of the girl in pink; he'd paid Sherlock a complement, and for a moment, Sherlock had seemed…embarrassed, almost bashful; like the shy awkward teenager the great man had undoubtedly been. It was as if no-one had ever bothered to let Sherlock know he was amazing; with the way he usually acted, they probably thought he already damn well knew it.

The knot had tightened then, coiled in the pit of his stomach and tugged, just once, to make itself known. John still couldn't name the sensation, but he knew what was causing it. There are moments in life, where the things we want to do just hang there, in the air, right in front of us, completely unseen. Wanting to kiss Sherlock was apparently one of those things for John.

John dragged himself, dripping wet from the bath and patted himself down with a towel. He wrapped the cloth low on his hips and turned the shower off.

I'll try the talking and if that doesn't work…then show it is.

Thinking Sherlock would be up by now, he rushed across the hallway to his bedroom and scrambled into clean jeans and his comfort jumper; his thick beige cable knit. He couldn't quite believe his ears when he crept down the stairs and found the sleepy breathing of his flatmate still wafting through his bedroom door. John managed to pretend to watch TV for a whole two hours before he heard the crash of life from Sherlock's cave. All he could do was stare at the door, and wait.

**A.N.- Cracks back John styley _ Hmmmm...must now begin the major debate of whether or not to keep Sherlock both shirtless and trouserless for the next chapter XD Such a hard decision ^^ I'm sure the logical answer will come to me soon enough ;3 you guys shall just have to wait and see! Really really really thanks for all the alerts, faves and for the wonderful reviews ^^ Planning on cranking things up a knotch either in the next chapter or the one after that so hold onto your deerstalkers and boler hats kids!- Will John make his feelings clear? Will Sherlock react well? Will Mycroft ever get round to bugging the bathroom? (He has something in every other room! Well appart from Sherlock's, but only because he was waisting a lot of tax payers money replacing the equipment _) **


	7. White Noise

It took a good fifteen minutes for Sherlock to drag himself up off the floor. The thought of John's interrogation was enough to make the serial insomniac want to dive back into the sheets, but he knew the longer he left it, the more concerned his doctor would be. Usually he would throw on his dressing gown and head up the stairs with a pile of clothes to wash and dress. That morning, sorry, afternoon however, the lethargy and the groggy warmth that clung to his skin meant that he staggered up from the floor, through his door and made it to the door frame of their living room before the sucking sensation in his brain caused him to slope sideways against the wood.

"Ungh."

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock jumped. He'd expected John to be around, but not sat on the sofa staring directly at the doorway. The detective lay his dark curls against the wall and took John in through half-open blue eyes. John looked as he always looked; like John, perfectly John. Sherlock frowned at himself.

This is why I don't sleep. I come out with obsurd drivel like that.

He cleared his throat with a soft cough, "Just head rush. I got up too fast."

John nodded, but still looked concerned, "And the oversleeping? The, what I imagine was, you falling out of bed?"

Sherlock grated one long set of fingers back and for across his forehead. He tried to think of an explanation that didn't involve the truth, but he didn't look or feel ill and after all John would be able to see through that lie almost instantly, "I was having a…"he paused for an adjective, "bad dream. It was stupidly vivid, almost real."

John's features shifted remarkably fast and with furious intensity. Sherlock's weary mind struggled to keep up. His face read something like; confusion, bewilderment, realisation, rejection, hurt (why would he be feeling hurt?) denial, calm and finally hope, before his it smoothed over and his mouth opened, "Really? What was it about?"

Sherlock flinched; he'd rather hoped John wouldn't ask that question. Blue eyes shut out the world completely, "Just tea for me."

It was his usual 'subject closed' line. Sherlock had used it when John found the head in the fridge, when John smelt the dead squirrel under the sofa, when John tripped over the coffin in the darkened living room (that vampire case had not been one of John's favourites). The line usually resulted in a growl from John followed by him actually make tea. It was really…quite ridiculously…cute. Sherlock pulled a face.

I did not just use the word 'cute' inside my own head.

There were only one or two things strange enough to make Sherlock's eyes snap open or change focus quickly. One of those things was John not following the pattern. Maybe it was a defence mechanism against living with another human being, maybe it was the fact that he was…had feelings for John -somewhere between possessiveness and romance- but Sherlock noticed the distinct lack of a growl before John had even stood up. The blonde man noticed the sudden startled awakening of Sherlock Holmes and smiled a warm, slightly smug smile, then walked into the kitchen to make tea.

"Sit," John commanded with all of his usual military authority, not that it ever worked.

Sherlock took one long step over to the sofa and dropped flat, so that his head was starring up at the smiley face on the wall.

Whatever possessed me to draw that in the first place?

Oh yes.

A small hum emanated from within his chest, deep, baritone. John had been particularly bright that day. John had called him amazing seven times. The face had seemed an appropriate way to redecorate in celebration of that fact. But when Sherlock didn't have a case, when John didn't get the opportunity to call him amazing, the bloody thing taunted him. Hence the bullet holes.

"You had it coming," Sherlock muttered.

"What was that?" John asked loudly over the hissing kettle.

"You're hearing things John."

Sherlock heard a distinct mumble that sounded oddly like, "Oh am I now?" before John's voice grew louder and higher. There was a distinct air of innocence as John said the words, "I had a dream too last night, you know?"

Sherlock had come round enough to know that tone meant John was being obscure. It annoyed him, but only because he still wasn't awake enough to know what John was being obscure about.

"Yes John," Sherlock snapped, "I did know because everyone, everywhere dreams every night, multiple times."

John laughed. He actually laughed. Sherlock couldn't understand. Every muscle in his body seemed to arch defensively. Then John appeared round the kitchen archway stirring a cup of tea in his hands whilst that glorious little laugh continued to chirp its way out of his mouth. The beautiful little crow's feet at the corners of John's eyes were pulled tight. Sherlock was amazed by how that look could unravel all the tension from him in an instant.

"Why are you laughing?"

John quirked an eyebrow, "Can't you tell?"

He passed Sherlock the tea as he sat up. The leather stuck to his pale skin in awkward places. Sherlock suddenly felt quite naked.

Of course you feel naked, you're only wearing boxers.

Where the hell did your shirt go anyway?

The detective pressed the tea cup to his mouth and took a sip. It was exactly as he liked it; just hot enough to drink, strong but with plenty of milk, and just a dash of sugar. How Mummy used to make it. As he drank he made one final attempt at reading John. There was a genuine smile on his face now, though a strange nervousness seemed to lurk in the background. Any other afternoon and Sherlock would have made the connection long before John gave a laughing sigh and said, "It's nothing Sherlock, I just doubt anyone dreamt anything like I did last night."

John seemed to hop slightly as he moved back across the room. He made it midway to the archway and turned back to add, "It _was_ the _realest_ thing."

The weighting of the words, the over emphasis the sat heavily on "was" and "realest." Sherlock's mind seemed to reset itself. His mouth gaped, his eyes popped. His thoughts were a mess of white noise and static. Nothing was getting through.

And before Sherlock could make sense of anything, before he could realise what he was doing, he was on his feet, across the room, with his mouth pressed fiercely against John's.

**A.N.- Yup, guess where the next chapter is heading XD I'm not really sure how much more of this I'll be writing. I'll definately bring it to a good close, but I might do a sequel so that I can have a bit more plotline...or I may make this quite a bit longer to get a plotline in there ^^ Hmmms...requires more thought, and possible planning...and immaginings of Sherlock in the all together ;3 Thanks once more for all the new alerts, faves, and reviews! Makes my day every morning ^^ Now where was I...Oh yes- Will Sherlock realise what he's doing and have a melt down? Will they make it to fourth base? Will Mycroft get an eye full o' boy lovin'? (~sniggers~ sorry, I'm sorry, the thought is just there in my head XD) R&R guys! I love you for it!**


	8. Shocks to the System

**Warning: Definate man lovin'!**

About 10 seconds later, Sherlock started thinking again. Everything shot out of the white haze in the brush of his lips against John's. It was almost painful, that amount of brain power jolting him awake. He attempted to ignore the sudden surge of thoughts but one in particular snapped into place and caused him to intake a sharp breath through his nose and unlatch from John's mouth. His eyes were alarmingly wide and he stepped back, hand covering his mouth. Not only could he feel the muscles of his eyelids contracting painfully, John's face seemed to show deep concern at Sherlock's quick action.

The detective raised one long finger -one minute- and dashed out of the room and up the stairs, practically dive bombing into the bathroom. He slammed the door behind him and locked it swiftly. The safest room in the house. The only one with a lock.

Not that that's what's bothering me.

Sherlock leant over the sink and grabbed his toothbrush.

Morning breath! Why the hell didn't I think about morning breath?

Because you didn't think!

He squirted toothpaste violently onto the brush and began to scrub at his teeth. It gave him time, time that he didn't want. He didn't want to think about it anymore, he just wanted to do.

Was that really not just a dream?

John had seemingly implied so, but Sherlock hadn't stopped to ask. All that energy…emotion he'd been trying to contain for months now had just exploded at the hands of a very vague suggestion. What if John had meant something else entirely? No, no, the emphasis had been to clear.

Unless I imagined it.

Sherlock certainly wasn't about to reject the idea that human's, even those with above average intelligence, could sometimes hear what they wanted to hear. The mind plays tricks on us all; even those that are clearly gifted with genius. That thought created a whole different hypothesis to explain the concerned look on John's face as he had broken away.

He must think I've finally snapped and gone insane.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" John's voice was warm and sturdy.

Sherlock blinked back to reality, only to realise he was stood with a mouthful of mint staring at his reflection in the mirror. There was toothpaste running down his chin. He spat the rest out into the sink and quickly swilled his mouth with water.

"Sherlock?" the voice was coming from downstairs still, but slightly closer; probably the doorway to the sitting room.

"I'm fine John," Sherlock choked out in response.

He put his thumb in his mouth and bit down.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

Stop bloody panicking.

Because he was. Sherlock could see the fear sparkling in his own blue eyes. If John hadn't meant it; if John didn't feel the same way; if John was scared off; if John left….

SHUT UP!

Sherlock's canine punctured the top layer of skin and he let out a yelp of surprise.

This is getting ridiculous.

He shook himself, sucked the wound on his thumb dry, and then pulled open the bathroom door with vicious ferocity. His breath left him.

In front of him was John's open bedroom door; his simple, military inspection fit room. But for once, John's bed wasn't made; the duvet was stripped back, revealing an elongated dent, too thin and too shallow to be from John's stout, dense frame. The dip about half way down was more John's depth; he'd been sat on the edge of the bed for some time, holding Sherlock's purple shirt. And how did Sherlock know that? Because his silk shirt, the silk shirt that he now remembered he had slipped off his body before crawling into bed with John last night, was folded neatly under John's pillow.

Sherlock's keen eye could make out the fabric even from the doorway, but he needed to check, needed to feel. His body moved slowly across the room and one hesitant limb bent to pull it out. It was there. It was really there.

"It really happened."

"Yes."

The voice was so close and so soft; it made Sherlock shiver rather than jump. John's hand was on his hip, turning Sherlock slowly to face him. They stared at each other for a while. John was waiting for Sherlock to make the first move, to say something, do something; that was quite clear. Even in the giant jumble of thoughts that were stirring in Sherlock's head, he could still read John.

Questions. Go for questions.

Questions lead to order.

"How? When? What?"

Too many questions.

John practically beamed, though Sherlock couldn't quite tell why. His best guess was that the doctor seemed to be delighting in his inability to form a coherent sentence.

"I don't know," John's thumb began to run what was meant to be soothing circles around the curve of Sherlock's hip…if anything it was making Sherlock far more unsteady. He was getting a very strange sensation, like his knee joints were about to spontaneously collapse, "All I know is, I woke up this morning to find myself alone, and I didn't like it," John's words were firm and solid. His hand moved up from Sherlock's hip and wrapped around his torso, gently gliding up his spine.

Fuck.

Sherlock's knees buckled and he collapsed back onto John's bed, taking John with him. They both gasped in shock, hearts skipping in tandem as John landed with his full body pressed into the detective. They stared at each other through blue and brown eyes.

"This is really happening," John nodded and Sherlock let out a baritone laugh that vibrated through them both.

John's hipped rocked with the feeling and Sherlock's laughter turned to a growl, "I do love it when you read my mind."

Sherlock laced his long fingers into the neckline of John's favourite jumper and drew him in closer. He let their eyes glitter silently to each other for just a moment longer, then pressed his lips briefly against John's. Then again, and again; teasing his mouth slowly open with every touch. His arms slowly slid down John's jumper, revelling in the tactile sensation of the fabric, until they reached the hem. Then Sherlock had a very different sensation to focus on; skin. His hand slipped under the knit and immediately began to explore John's body with the lightest of touches. It made John shiver. Then groan. Sherlock saw his chance and darted the tip of his tongue between John's parted lips.

The doctor began to grind against Sherlock rhythmically, completely unaware. Sherlock grinned against John's mouth. It was like being a child on Christmas morning all over again and there was far too much wrapping paper on his present. Sherlock pulled his mouth away and with one swift tug, dragged the woolly jumper from John's body. As John's skin collapsed back onto Sherlock, the detective felt the heat suddenly flood to his groin and he bucked. John moaned and pressed more firmly into Sherlock's hips.

Time to roll.

Sherlock whipped them over and planted his mouth against John's before the man could even think about protesting. One bare knee nuzzled itself between John's legs and Sherlock leant forward further, then back again. He could feel the strengthening erection pulling at John's jeans and his own began to harden in response. His mouth slipped from John's lips and landed on the point, just below John's right ear. Sherlock blew warm breath over his skin before licking it lightly and sucking on the pulse just below. John rocked against Sherlock's knee and mewled.

Still too much wrapping paper.

From his neck Sherlock worked his way down John's chest and passed a sharp tooth against the hardened nipple. He took the tiny nub inside his mouth and suckled, distracting John long enough to get his belt and fly undone.

And then Sherlock found himself on his back, with his head on John's pillow.

"John!" His outrage was stifled by the other man's mouth and the hand that brushed gently over his chest, scrapped down his belly and landed on the hot mast holding up his boxers.

Sherlock's entire body shuddered as John ran his index finger along his penis through the thin fabric. He found himself rocking into John's hand urgently, needing more; more pressure, more touch.

Less wrapping!

"John…" Sherlock groaned; his own voice was so low now; he barely recognised it, "John."

As if John had read his mind once more his fingers slipped beneath the elastic of Sherlock's boxers and ran a tentative race along the smooth skin just below his abs. Sherlock shivered and bucked and cried, "John!" in exasperation.

John leant his lips against Sherlock's ear, teasing back the damp curls with the tip of his nose.

"Sherlock," he whispered, and thrust his hand under the fabric.

For the second time that day, Sherlock's mind went on strike. He froze as John's touch slid smoothly around his shaft, then his back arched up and his eyes closed tight. John's mouth found Sherlock's once more in the pitch black of Sherlock's shuttered worl and the soldier kissed him deeply; curling his tongue against the roof of his mouth, licking it, making Sherlock hum. John's free hand pulled down the insignificant barrier still clinging to Sherlock's hips and then began to stroke and caress the aching erection in time with his tongue, moving, dipping deeper and deeper into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's hands had made their way into John's hair and his legs wrapped around the man's hips. They were both rocking now, Sherlock panting in shorter and shorter breaths.

And he must have bucked, again and again -a thousand times- but he really couldn't have cared less because finally, finally John…John… "JOHN!"

Sherlock spasmed up, back arching again, pulling John down on top of him as he came. A thousand electric shocks ran riot round his body. John's arms wrapped around his back, the hand from his groin lingering just a little longer, just long enough for Sherlock to come down and feel John's rough palm glide lasciviously over his ribcage. He trembled.

John touched his nose against Sherlock's and placed a light kiss against the corner of the man's mouth, "I'm sorry," John smiled, "It seems I lose all control when it comes to you."

Sherlock nudged his nose against John's in response, "I think you'll find I'm the one who lost control," he nipped at John's bottom lip and sighed happily, "Don't expect it to happen again." He laughed lowly and John moaned once more against the baritone voice.

**A.N.- JOHN FINALLY GOT HIM NAKED! HOORAH! I'd like to start by thanking my faithful reader LoneWoolf who essentially gave me a reason not to blind Mycroft by reminding me about morning breath. Honeslty, it's been so long since I've written anything like this I had completely forgotten about the semantics XD I'd also like to apologise for it being a little late, but I have only just this minute finished writing it (so if there are any errors I apologise!) Having only written something like this once before to be read by anyone other than myself I hope you gals and guys like it ^^ R&R peeps, I'd love to know what you think ;3 Now then...- Where will our boys go from here? Will they solve Mycroft's case (or even read the ruddy thing?) And will Sherlock ever get to top (or find clothes for that matter?XD)**

**Seriously enjoying this guys XD Rest assured it will continue.**

***edit* it is nearly two in the morning and I have just corrected a few things cos I couldn't sleep knowing how many mistakes I'd just found on my phone read through _**


	9. Chemistry for Dummies

**Warning: Light sprinklings of smut this time.**

John could see Sherlock slipping under the influence of prolactin and oxytocin. The sudden onset drowsiness was irritating the chronic insomniac. He'd slept through most of the day, and now he was fading into a light doze once again. A tiny crease had formed on his pale forehead. John couldn't stop himself from kissing it away. Sherlock sighed sleepily, every muscle in his body relaxed, and then he was under. The soldier grinned to himself and pressed his own forehead into Sherlock's dark curls.

Did I really just do that?

The dull ache in his groin answered his question. John took a deep breath. The shock of Sherlock's smell made John hold it for a little longer than usual; he'd never realised how much he loved that scent. It was chemical and yet somehow earthy; most likely the result of working in St Bart's lab, lingering over soil samples for days on end. Of course there was also just the finest trace of musk to him now, after sleeping all day and then, doing this, lying naked…

John's thought's drifted off unwillingly.

You are lying next to your naked flatmate.

You have just, for want of a better term, "jacked him off."

John choked down the, "Holy shit!" that was trying to climb out of his throat. It would wake Sherlock up. That was the last thing he needed. What he needed was to think.

John closed his eyes and counted to ten, closing off the portion of his brain that dealt with smell and touch. He needed to block him out; the tall, slender, angelically pale (That's not helping!) form that lay next to him; he needed to block all of that out. And find his centre. That place he'd found this morning after several mugs of tea and texts from Mycroft and the world's longest shower; he needed to find that place again.

So ignoring all the voices currently, whispering, "Shit John! What did you do?" He reached for the quietest corner of his brain and stayed there, letting his body melt with ease.

So. How are we feeling exactly?

He grinned into the warm black fur that tickled his nose.

Good, I'm feeling good.

He nodded to himself. He was happy, elated, euphoric and just a little bit proud; proud of what he'd managed to do to the man sleeping quite deeply now beside him.

I didn't know I had it in me.

Screw being straight, I feel incredible.

To pin Sherlock down like that and distract him; it made John feel as he once had in the army; powerful, confident. Sure chasing Sherlock around the streets of London gave John the thrill he had been missing; that adrenaline rush that kept his heart pounding all the way back to the flat, and the wall just inside the door, where they'd laugh and collapse against the wallpaper. But he was always the one who followed, the good soldier that marched on after Sherlock Holmes. John Watson had missed being commanding. He'd forgotten he was capable of it.

And Sherlock's face; the mix of fury and surprise that had all been so easily kissed and stroked away...

I must be a secret sadist or something because he is going to make me pay for that.

John breathed a whispering laugh into his pillow. The detective beside him stirred and John opened his dark eyes to check he was still asleep. Sherlock's breathing was deep and heavy, his eyes were still closed. All the signs of sleep, but the corner of his mouth was twitching microscopically. If Sherlock hadn't taught him to look for the little things John would've missed it. The doctor wondered how long he'd been faking, but said nothing. Sherlock would know what John was thinking about, and clearly he thought John was on the right path. The man usually interrupted John's line of thinking the moment he stumbled off somewhere dark and oblique.

John let the panicked voices drift back one by one, and found that most of them could be shot down with a, "This is different. This is Sherlock."

And it's not like Harry will care.

Although God forbid me and Sherlock ever…

His thoughts were stunned into silence by the touch of a now familiar mouth to his. It was light, barely a real touch, but it was enough to get John to open his eyes. They were met with Sherlock's brilliant blue irises, staring intensely as they always did. John started at his sudden proximity, but a cool arm had looped around his back to stop him thudding into the wall. Sherlock's face was too close for John to see his mouth, but he saw the cheeks rise and the muscles round his eyes contract warmly.

"When did you roll over?" John muttered quietly.

"Only a second ago. I imagine you would've realised if I'd moved slower," Sherlock brushed his lips against John's again, a little longer this time, a little firmer, "You knew I was awake."

"Yes."

"And I knew what you were thinking."

"Yes?"

Those crystalline blue eyes sparkled happily, "My dear, dear Watson. As if I'd ever let you go now that I have you."

And just to emphasize his point Sherlock threw a leg around John's hips and tugged his pelvis forward, planting a further kiss on John's mouth. When he shuffled back a little John's attention was drawn to the raised eyebrow and the hint of a smirk on Sherlock's face.

"What?"

Sherlock's tongue grazed the tip of his own canine, "It would seem John you're still in need of relief."

The ache in John's groin was still present, his erection still firm in his trousers, "That's alright, it'll go…mmph."

One of Sherlock's pale fingers lay itself over John's pink lips, whilst the other stroked the denim fabric below John's still unzipped fly.

"It would also seem, that I am in need of a shower John," the detective's low rumble shuddered through the doctor.

Sherlock removed his finger and replaced it with his mouth, sliding his tongue into and already gapping mouth. John responded quickly, using his own tongue to stroke the sensitive tip and Sherlock tightened the grip of his single bare leg. John's found his hand smoothing up Sherlock's thigh and round to his rump. His fingers flexed against the smooth tight cheek.

Sherlock's lips moved away but he stayed close, eyes burning into John's with pools of liquid black, "Shower. John. Now!"

**A.N.- A thousand apologies for the latness of this chapter! _ But look! Small amounts of smut XD I took an unexpected break whilst I sorted out some work stuffs in real life. Everything went on hold, including my real writing ~cries~ I'm like a junkie; I crave writing like most addicts crave smack. Anyhow, I'm back to normal now so I should be back to my normal rythmn in no time :3**

**Soooooo...Will John ever find relief? Will Sherlock be the dominating ass we all know him to be? Will the shower steam be hot and steamy? (Pfft XD oh I'm so evil with my secret intentions X3) Till next time... ;D**


	10. Confessions of a Homo Sapien

**Warning: Just an ickle bit of smut.**

As Sherlock gripped John's hand tight and dragged him up from the bed, John found himself suddenly and completely in awe of the man before him. Of course it wasn't like the good doctor hadn't been in awe of Sherlock Holmes before- actually he was quite used to it- but this time was different. It wasn't his effortless genius that was shinning through now, it was his brashness, his unrivalled inability to comprehend how dazzling he looked. John laughed at himself.

I sound like a ruddy chick flick.

It didn't stop it from being true. Sherlock's skin wasn't perfect, a few year of throwing himself over rooftops, and what looked remarkably like a stab wound to his hip, had left the lily white surface of his body littered with silver scars. But the man was sleek, and moved forever with purpose, even whilst butt naked. John couldn't help but compare the image of being towed by Sherlock towards the bathroom, to a selection of females who had once done the same thing. Not one compared.

"Not even Sarah?" Sherlock chimed in.

John jumped, "What?"

The dark haired man turned his head, said nothing, but flashed John a rare and brilliant smile. John kicked the bathroom door shut behind himself and rolled the lock with his spare hand. The detective pulled him just a little further, then pressed him fiercely into the sink. Sherlock teased his finger around the inside of the denim waistband just a fraction and the fabric dropped, leaving a very naked Sherlock pressed against a barely clothed and highly aroused John.

"Much better," Sherlock smiled and sighed.

He towered over John, who was practically sitting in the sink. Every nerve fibre in the soldier skin was buzzing, waiting for the next move. But as Sherlock leaned over him, lips just inches away, a thought, or more accurately, collection of thoughts seemed to spark back and for across his blackened pupils. John pressed a had into Sherlock's hip and ran his thumb along the edge. There was something unpleasant about the look that that mob of thoughts had brought to the man's face. He looked suddenly, unsure.

"Sherlock?"

The eyes refocused on the present, "Yes?"

"What's up?"

"The ceiling, the sky, the planets, your erection…"

John planted a kiss on his lips to shut him up, "I meant, what was that thought, just then, that made you pause?"

Sherlock pressed his forehead into John's and closed his eyes, "I was just remembering, last night."

"Huh?"

"I pulled up your blind."

John's eyebrows knitted together against Sherlock's skin. Sherlock lifted a hand and laced his fingers into John's sandy hair, mimicking John's thumb by tracing the same pattern around his tanned ear. The action sent a comforting shiver down the doctor's spine, "Care to elaborate?"

"Care to? Not exactly, but I will," Sherlock chuckled, "I remember, why I thought it was a dream. Why I couldn't remember it was real. Why I slept until one."

"And why's that?"

"After you fell asleep, I made a few simple deductions and realised that you thought you were dreaming. It was an obvious conclusion. After all, you'd never shown any outward signals in normal waking communication. It was a…Freudian wet dream."

John laughed, remembering his psych rotation all too well.

"I slipped out of bed, not knowing how you would react to finding me still there in the morning, but I couldn't leave you quite yet…and yet..I needed to think. So I opened you blind and stared out the window."

"As you always do."

"It's good to stare at something when you're thinking John. It keeps the observational skills alert."

John kissed him for that.

Sherlock sighed again, "I stood there, debating what to do until about five am, when I came to the conclusion that maybe us both thinking it was all a dream would be less complicated in the long run. If I had to keep it to myself, I'd crack. If I told you and you reacted badly, I could lose you. If I told you and you reacted well, how would it work? With what we do? Who we are? So…"

"You walked yourself back down to your own bed, took a sleeping pill and deleted the memory as best you could," John finished.

"Correct."

John took a moment to let the story sink in, then his eyes focussed on Sherlock's still closed lids, "And you think I feel, what? Angry?"

Long dark lashes flickered open and blue eyes met his gaze, "I thought you might be, for not giving you the choice. You tend to get annoyed when I don't allow you in on a discussion of this sort."

"Damn right I do," John growled half-heartedly, to re-affirm and established point, "But in this case, I'm not angry."

For a moment hurt filled Sherlock's eyes as he immediately leapt to the wrong conclusion. Then the man saw the humour in John's eyes and managed a meek, "Why not?"

The soldier grinned, "Because you did let me in on the discussion."

"What?"

"You left a perfectly Sherlock shaped dent in my mattress, a poorly concealed purple shirt under my bed, and of course you made no effort to hide my phone so I would be unable to see any incoming Mycroft texts. Even at 5am, you don't leave that kind of evidence just lying around. You're still a genius in the wee hours. Therefore we must conclude that…"John paused, allowing Sherlock to deduce for himself.

"I wanted to get caught."

John rocked his forehead in a nod, and added lowly, "With your trousers down."

Sherlock moved fast, rolling John's head to an upward angle and pulling in his mouth. The taller man frantically tugged the soldier's boxers to the floor and brushed his hand over John's shaft. John moaned loudly into Sherlock's mouth. He hadn't realised quite how much blood had rushed from his head, but it seemed to be joined by more and more. He felt light-headed, to dizzy to think, barely able to realise he was being dragged forwards, towards the bathtub. The gliding touch of Sherlock's hand against his erection was all that he could focus on; it was blissfully painful as the ache lapped at him in waves causing his hips to grind slowly.

The next thing the doctor was aware of, was a snarl from the man holding him upright against the bath tiles, and a sharp yelp from his own lungs as the freezing cold water streamed over them both. Sherlock pulled John into him and turned the tap quickly to shut the ice stream off but it was already too late; the quick blast of cold water had been enough. John felt the vessels constrict painfully in his groin.

"I will kill him," Sherlock hissed.

John's eyes widened and he leaned back slightly to get a better look at the detective's face, "Who exactly?"

"I believe he means me," came a familiar silvery voice from the landing, "Sorry about that John, but throwing a bucket of cold water over the two of you appeared to be the only way to get Little Brother's attention. Would you mind donning some clothes and joining me downstairs gentlemen?"

Sherlock's eyes were narrowed so finely John could barely make out the colour of slate that had replaced the glittering blue. He glanced from Sherlock to the door then back again. He touched his nose softly to Sherlock's cheek and watched amusedly as his eyes widened once more, and his pupils blew.

"We'll be right out Mycroft," John chuckled and Sherlock let out a frustrated growl.

**A.N.- Yup. Little late again. I know, I know. But I've been feeling like complete crap since my last update _ In no mood to write anything…or do much of anything else. But alas I have pulled myself together enough this evening just to type you this little…evil sumin' sumin'. I know. I'm cruel. But they really should be getting on with this case now don't you think? And I can hardly let them have full on man smex this early in John's new found gaydum, and Sherlock's new found…humanity XD soooooo – What is Mycroft's case anyhow? Will Sherlock find some clothing? Or….Will our favourite consulting detective manage to solve this one…in the nuddy? (Jamie Oliver style XD…lol Brit joke _) **


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